


Avarice & Avidity

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, No Romance, Plague, only death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young person (no pronouns used for them- they're whatever you want them to be) is researching old buildings in Europe. This particular trip takes a turn for the worst after doing a thing that every dumbass in American horror films does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avarice & Avidity

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for school but, I haven't uploaded anything in like 60 years. I also cut it short since it's late and due in the morning. There was a lot more I was gonna add but, let's just cut right to the slaughter I suppose!
> 
> Do you think my teacher will be able to tell I bullshited this? More at 6

On a trip to Europe, after visiting a great deal of places where tragedy has struck, we found ourselves in England outside of decrepit old church in the countryside. The building itself was weakened due to centuries of neglect. The stained glass windows fragmentary- broken into pieces. After assessing the damage that Mother Nature has done to the archaic architecture, the lot of us decided it would be safe enough to take a closer look. A young man in his twenties, along with a young lady around 19, pulled back one of the cumbersome wooden doors, barely being held up by its rusty hinges. I entered first, of course. The inside told a greater story than the outside could even conceive. The stone walls were stained and eroding, no longer able to seek protection from the elements. The wooden floor was rotting and worn in parts. Skeletons of plague victims and their families still sit in the pews in eternal prayer. Whispers went around the group—about how we were disturbing the perpetual rest of the dead-awakening the deceased from their slumber. I retained my positive outlook on this expedition and urged the others to continue as well. The candles in the candelabras were long gone, melted into waxy puddles hardened on the wood floor and we had neglected to bring a light source of our own. Without care and without apprehension, we looked for any artifact we could bring back to the city. While our investigation was moving forward, an older member of our party’s foot fell through the floor where the wood was the weakest. He gasped audibly and pleaded for our help, the young lady promptly rushed to his side to assist. After his foot was freed from the splintered wood with minimal damage, the girl peered into the hole only to see darkness. She requested to the rest that we search for a door that may lead to a basement posthaste. I, personally, thought the bones littering the floor of the macabre church was ominous enough so, I left the search to the others. While they looked for a door, I took a scrutinizing eye to remains. Some of the deceased wore jewelry, some with necklaces that were created to hold herbs to fend of the inescapable Black Death. None of the jewelry seemed to be worth much and, just as I was about to retire from my pursuit, the quickly setting sun reflected off of the colored shards of stained glass on the floor which, in return, shown off of an expensive looking pendant on a skeleton leaning by the entrance. I gaily approached the body and snatched up the pendant. I held it up to the light and the gems shown in a multitude of colors. While revering my newly found treasure- one that is sure to bring me wealth- a young man called to me to announce the discovery of a trap door that is sure to lead to the cellar of the old structure.   
When I approached, the young man pulled the door open. A peculiar odor struck us immediately—with no warning. The odor was that of death and disease and antiquity. I exchanged a glace of foreboding with another young intern. Another intern inquired as to if I found anything during my search. I falsely reported no findings. I wanted to keep the pendant- and the wealth that was sure to come from its sale- to myself. After gathering our courage, the group of us climbed down the unstable ladder. One of the rungs broke in half while the young lady was climbing down, causing the ladder to sway. Once the ladder steadied, we continued our descent. The stench got stronger was we got closer to the bottom of the pit. After arriving to the bottom, we split up into smaller groups. I found myself left with a sickeningly optimistic young man who felt the immortality that being young seemed to give. The basement itself was more complex than one would conceptualize, the tunnels extended, most likely, farther than the church itself. The intern produced a small matchbook out of his back pocket and struck one, lighting the corridor dimly. The corridor was littered with discarded supplies, supplies used in the construction of the structure. The young intern walked far ahead of me, the match burning between his fingers. He rambled passionately about what we may discover in this morose hole under the church. A creaking was heard faintly on the floorboards of the building above. My hand automatically went to the pendant—my key to wealth. Someone was in the church—they were in the church and wanted to take away his most prized possession! The intern gave a nervous laugh and commented that it was probable that the noise was just the church settling on its foundation. The creaking continued and then gradually stopped. While searching, the intern found what could be an old record, maybe plans for the infrastructure of the cellar. He prodded at the tattered paper excitedly—again, passionately raving about the possibility of Earth-shattering discovery. I, myself, was unimpressed. Once the intern noticed my lack of enthusiasm, he dejectedly continued down the corridor. The match eventually burned out so, he lit another. We continued for what seemed like decades down the never-changing corridor. The intern was a few meters ahead of me, warning me of possible obstacles. Suddenly—suddenly without warning—a figure closed in upon the young, naïve intern! Its mask covered its face completely, a beak sticking out, casting a grotesque silhouette. A heavy fabric cloaked its thin frame, gloved hands held the intern to the damp wall. He desperately—oh, so desperately—tried to pry the bony hands off. The figure turned to face me, its masked face tilted slightly, much like the animal to which it shares its countenance. It extended a hand to me and gestured. It wanted the pendant in return for my intern, I hypothesized. I produced it from my pocket and held it in front of me, the light from the match, still clutched in the intern’s hand, reflected dimly off of the stones surface. No! I could not let this ghoul take it from me. I wrapped my hand in a tight fist around the object, anxiety settling heavily in my chest. I refused. What I saw following was most horrifying. The figure pushed a bony hand through the abdominal cavity of my young intern, clutching the young man’s heart. The match dropped to the ground, extinguishing on contact. I could no longer see the figure. But, I did feel the warm hand, slick with blood and gore wrapping around my throat.


End file.
